After a long while, Fu Jingrong still did not speak. He was gazing at his father silently, his eyes unmoving, fixed upon the still figure on the bed as if trying to memorize every faint breath that rose and fell from his chest. The rhythmic sound of the monitor filled the room—steady, soft, yet heavy with meaning.
Hua Jing sat beside him quietly, her own eyes following the same direction. She sighed softly, the sound barely audible, more like a whisper carried away by the air conditioning in the quiet ward.
Her mind drifted back—to that other world.
Back then, Fu Jingrong's father had been the Emperor. Dignified, noble, yet kind. He had treated her well despite her humble position in the palace. She could still remember the serene way he used to smile, the calm wisdom in his eyes when he looked at his son, and the quiet authority that made even the most arrogant officials bow their heads.
And when he died…
Her chest tightened at the memory.
